


Not again.

by squid (triesquid)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, So much angst, Wangst, john and rodney are so thoroughly over in this, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triesquid/pseuds/squid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney would palely loiter, be ghostwritten by John to others in soul-rending misrepresentations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not again.

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers, no episode reference at all. Beta'd by whee. It's completely wangst and John/Rodney only in the sense of very, very over.
> 
> This was written years ago, but I did some editing when I posted it here. Like ya do.

Rodney took a step back—afraid to touch again, afraid to be hurt again, afraid to love again.  
  
Was he so wrong to feel this way?

Was he cowardly or wise to be so cautious after being torn asunder again?

Was there any reason for him  _not_  to feel this way?  
  
It hurt so badly:  a nice neat hole clear through his chest, except.

Except that there wasn't anything there.  No gapping, raged wound.  
  
Just skin.  
  
Shouldn't it show when it hurt this badly? Shouldn't there be some physical manifestation of this sort of pain so that people could see and say, "Oh, what happened"?  
  
Shouldn't there be some way to tell the walking-wounded from the rest of the world?  
  
But, no, there wasn't:  no exterior indicator, no torn flesh, no banner carrier to announce his pain to the world.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Just inarticulable pain.  
  
Just shadows and want and rejection.

And, here he was, lost—just _lost_ —lost in memories that had never been meant for him— _never meant to be his—_ memories that were singed around the edges and burned like acid in his mind.  
  
Memories of things he had thought meant  _something_.  
  
Anything.  
  
 _That had meant everything to him._

Yet were only ashes in his mouth now.  
  
Rodney would like to think that John would change his mind, realize that he had destroyed someone that had cared for him.  
  
That had loved him.  
  
Seriously, who was Rodney kidding?  Certainly not himself.

Ultimately, as much as John insisted he wanted intelligence and wit and someone that would love him the way he should be loved— _deserved to be loved—_ he was only interesting the surface.  
  
Wanted beauty.  
  
Wanted perfection.  
  
Another slavish devotee of phi.  
  
And Rodney had been found lacking.  
  
Inferior.  
  
Less-than.  
  
Again and again and again.  
  
 _Always lacking._

There was nothing he could do—not really. Rodney was only what he was:  imperfect.

Hell, he couldn't even live up to his own expectations.

He might never be able to take this chance again—not with John, not with anyone. Rodney would palely loiter, be ghostwritten by John to others in soul-rending misrepresentations.  
  
He would fade to shadow—another sadly funny joke to tell at cocktail parties, to entertain whomever would be John's epitome of phi.  
  
Rodney would become something (not some _one_ , some _thing_ ) for John to comfort himself with, convince himself that he was better off:  he had spoken the truth, and it wasn't his fault if Rodney couldn't cope with how John felt about him, how he was written and rewritten and ultimately deleted from John's mind.  
  
And Rodney knew that—whether there was some sort of reconciliation or not—a part of him would always be suspended in liminality, trapped by John's words.


End file.
